Living as I do of late has been both a revelation and a covering up of potential, seen through my frightened attempts to renege myself of responsibility for non-other than my writerly self.
That I have access to an—albeit erstwhile—genius, is of no doubt. But what I need further clarity on, is how I must use this precious source of art and beauty to illuminate my life and perhaps yours too.
And as I mull over all of that impossible this, I realize too that we are in a time of smoke and mirrors, where our desire for the material is a mirror reflecting the masquerade that is our lives, as we rush into the bravado of “it’s still not anything like a brave new world”.
Instead, here we are living in some same-old, same-old something, which is so hinged on contingencies called a search for the creature comforts of life.
And for those of us (like me) who have so much and yet always want much more, there have been so many moments that most definitely leave me mortified at how little of spiritual significance has manifested itself through me to you, or anyone else for that matter.
For you too must know that we’ve become mere vessels caught up in the superficiality of our shells, lured by their luster; thus, unable to tell ourselves to let go of the Ego-centricity of this maelstrom life.
And as I write these little failed attempts at lyricism, I recognize how contrived I’ve also now become—even in the privacy of my diary writing.
It’s because I feel that I must practice this art of writing even when not in the mood of said genius. This being for the simple fact that I am also in need of 10,000 hours of practice (or so Malcolm Gladwell says), if I truly want to become that author extraordinaire—worth her many texts in exchange for gold.
Now the writing practice itself is not bad, once you sink deep into it.
But instead, here I am seated on high—all up in my head. I am busy watching myself, laid out bare, from the cold distance of some kind of indifference.
And I sit here, detached from what I write, because this enables the dampening of my grief—that of the lost (inner) child—through the clinical process of pen meeting paper: This my blue pen upon this off-white paper, is scratching out a trace of myself in the event that someone else may see fit to seek this trail of insignificance, as I’m bursting to be set alight in a blaze of highlights and reification.
And yet, these my “I’m-still-chicken” scratchings are not just me laying some trivial trail. They are also me giving myself a few small nicks to see if I bleed, and whether that blood does truly bear life.
This right here, is the recognition of my right to write—not simply as a facade of this pseudo-existence but also as a right to life: mine, yours, and ours—blazing bountiful trails across the blue, blue sky.
And at this point I pontificate, looking for the moment when my last word hits the bottom of this diary page, so I can end this digging into my soul before it truly starts stirring some serious shit up.